


Cherryvale, Revisited

by rhombus



Series: Cherryvale [6]
Category: One Life to Live
Genre: Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2018-02-06 22:18:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1874490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhombus/pseuds/rhombus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Officer Fish, Cherryvale PD, on the job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherryvale, Revisited

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2009. Updating archive.

His work-request inbox emptied, his desk organized and tidy, Oliver felt it appropriate to peel his banana for a quick snack break.

He had been hesitant at first about taking the transfer to Cherryvale, though he wouldn’t have dared show it, or fully investigate those feelings of hesitance, but now that he was here and properly utilized, woefully needed and subsequently appreciated... he liked pretty much everything about his job. About his life in general.

Smiling to himself, he figured Officer Sahid and Detective Vega welcomed his willingness to go along with their painfully obvious transfer-ruse far more than he himself did. And who could blame them? He could tell just by seeing them together, how comfortably they stood near each other, how in sync their actions and words and probably even their thoughts were—he could tell how very much in love they were.

He envied them. To be with the person they loved...

Well, he envied Detective Vega, of course, because, really, Officer Sahid—Talia—was very... beautiful. Hot. With all of that... hair. She was a—a babe.

For a split second, he tried to imagine her with her clothes off. Before she could even unbutton her uniform collar his brain pulled the curtain down on that particular show.

Only because she was unavailable, of course. And... and a friend. And his former partner’s current lady love. And for all sorts of reasons why it was definitely an inappropriate avenue for his snack break thoughts.

A thick hand pounded down on his desk, startling him. He almost choked on his banana.

"Fish!" Officer Fenton smiled down at him. "You're up. C'mon."

Oliver's mouth dropped open. "U—up?"

"You're coming with me. Dispatch just called in a 10-91H."

Oliver combed through the lists of codes jumbling around in his brain. 10-91... stray animal. H... is for... "Stray horse?" he ventured, hoping he didn't sound as clueless to Fenton's ears as he did to his own. He was good at what he did, and the people here liked him. He just didn't know if he was ready to leave his techie whiz-kid comfort zone. It was, as it should be, comfortable.

Fenton thwacked him on the shoulder. "We're a little short-staffed today. Everyone's still recovering from the holiday." He brought his hand to his mouth and gestured the universal sign of 'drinking to excess.' "Chief figured a desk jockey like you could handle this one."

Oliver bounded out of his chair and fumbled for his coat. "Yes! I mean, yeah." He lowered his voice and jerked his head in a macho nod. "Yeah. I got this one."

"Steady there, cowboy." Fenton raised his arms. His lips curled up in a paternal smile. "It's just a horse. We'll probably play second fiddle to Dewey down in animal control on this one anyway." He gave Oliver a chummy pat on the back. "I'll drive. Come with me, kid."

As they made their way to the tiny fenced-in parking lot where Cherryvale PD's three squad cars were housed, Oliver rubbed his hands together in nervous anticipation. Even if he hadn't spent most of his time on desk duty, there just weren't a lot of crimes that needed solving in Cherryvale. There weren't that many people in the town to commit crimes against, and no one really owned anything worth coveting. And then there were the even less populated outlying regions past Route 74 with the cherry orchards, a few small horse farms, the pond...

He shook his head to stay focused.

He hopped into the passenger seat and his first inclination was to fiddle with the radio, but he pulled back his arm and stopped himself before he could do anything potentially embarrassing.

"Where we headed?" he asked. "I'll put it in the GPS."

Fenton turned to him with a creased brow. "GPS? Fish. This is Cherryvale." He put the car into gear and pulled out of the lot. "I know you're used to the big city life in Llanview, but we don't have fancy gadgets out here. There's a city guide in the glove compartment."

Oliver snapped his fingers and smiled triumphantly. "A ha! Lucky for you, I brought my own!" He pulled his personal handheld GPS device from his holster.

Fenton laughed. "Lawdy, Fish. Where's your gun?"

"In a lock box." Oliver shrugged. "In my locker."

"Well," Fenton said, turning the car west onto Main Street, "I guess I can't blame you. Not much gun play in the squad room, huh?" He fingered on the radio and brought the mouthpiece to his chin. "Dispatch, this is Officer Fenton responding to the 10-91H. What's our 10-38?"

Oliver prepped his GPS for inputting their destination.

A bored female voice crackled through the speakers. "Hey, Dave. Head out west to Hollyhock Road." Oliver thought he heard the snap of gum between her teeth. "16748's the closest residential address to where that weird trucker guy saw the horse."

"10-4. Thanks, Greta."

Oliver raised his eyebrows. Apparently they did things a bit more casually out here, outside of the squad room. Shrugging his shoulders, he began typing in the location. Three numbers in, he paused. He knew that address. He had stared at it long enough in indecision, at his print-out from Llannet Maps, to have it seared in his memory... a lifetime ago, when he had been a different person.

Though it was a chilly day in March, he couldn't stop the sweat from gathering under his arms, on his forehead, in his palms. What if she remembered him? What if she... said something to Fenton about him? He swallowed nervously. She probably wasn't even home, he reassured himself. She liked to go out to the bars, he remembered, until well into the evening.

Then his throat went completely dry. What if _he_ was there? Waiting up for her like he used to do?

His heart started pounding uncontrollably and his stomach flipped in circles like a circus dog. Then his brain betrayed him when a defiant tendril of hope began weaving in and out of his thoughts. Maybe... maybe he _wanted_ to see him again. It had been, he counted back quickly, nearly three years. It wouldn't have been so bad just to catch up with him. They _were_ friends once, after all. He wondered how much he may have changed, if he had grown his hair long like he had always threatened to do, if he had put on a little weight (like Oliver himself had), if those eyes could still pierce his soul and know _exactly_ who he was and still... still love him for it.

Fenton's voice broke through his traitorous thoughts.

"You got a girl, Fish?"

Oliver felt his cheeks warm with blush. "Um, not right now. Not really."

Fenton glanced at him before returning his gaze to the road. "Young kid like you, you shouldn't make the job your whole life, you know. Have a little fun. Go a little wild. Try new things. You know, experiment."

He couldn't hold back a disbelieving laugh. "Believe me. That's what college was for." He rubbed the dust off his pants leg. "Anyway, I've got a date with a girl. Tonight."

Fenton smiled. "She cute?"

Oliver shook his head. "I dunno. I've never, uh, actually seen her before."

"Blind date, huh?"

Oliver bit the inside of his cheek. "Internet dating." He prepared himself for Fenton's laughter, and Fenton didn't disappoint.

"Your generation and your internet. You'd think no one ever knew how to meet anyone fifteen years ago." He eased onto the brakes and pulled into a familiar dirt drive. "Here we are. That GPS thingy's pretty good."

Oliver nodded absently.

They exited the squad car and stared at the property, though Oliver knew that his thoughts diverged quite sharply from Fenton's at the sight of it.

"See if anyone's home, Fish. I'll check the stables for an empty stall."

His legs felt heavy, like he was trying to walk through tar. There was the front porch, but he couldn't quite get up the steps without using his arms to pull himself up the rails. At the top, he paused. Without permission, his fingers reached out and brushed the armrest of the wooden swing next to the front door. He thought he could hear the faint echo of beer bottles fizzing open and clinking against wood. A heaviness fell on his shoulder, the exact weight of a hand.

Shaking his head to ward off the memories, he clenched his fist into a tight ball, so tight his knuckles paled and his fingernails dug into skin. He lifted the fist, and with an extreme effort of willpower, brought it to the door.

The door creaked open under the force of Oliver's knock. He leaned his head forward, but couldn't discern any sounds from within.

"Hello?" He knocked again, pushing the door open further. "Anyone... anyone here?"

He hesitated in the entryway. He really didn't have any probable cause to enter the house. Except his own curiosity, and his sudden overwhelming need to see inside a place he had been before, to mark the changes of time and new taste. To wonder at things that had stayed the same.

A disobedient leg stepped forward. The other one, sheep-like, followed suit. He wandered through the front room slowly, amazed that he could recognize the _smell_ of a place that he'd spent less than a day in almost four years ago. His sense-memory was freakishly strong and it guided his movements, led him down the hall, placed him before the second door on the right.

 _His_ room.

As he wrapped his hand around the door knob, his stomach clenched. His breathing became shallow, forced, like his body was warring with his brain and the thing suffering most was his nerve. He rested his head on the rough wooden door, and as he closed his eyes, he felt himself drowning in the memories, memories that he had so painfully, skillfully, imperatively blocked for so long. They crashed over him now, invading his lungs, constraining his breath.

Laughter, fear, excitement, confusion. Being young and stupid. Giving in to feelings that were wrong. Feeling alive and... happy. Being one and _whole_.

He felt the sting of tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

 _No_. He released his hand from the door knob and jerked back. Those weren't _real_ feelings. His mind played tricks on him, placing meaning and value on physical sensations only.

Wiping the backs of his hands over his eyes, he strode out of the house as quickly as his legs would take him. It had been a mistake, coming here. _Both_ times.

He marched toward the stables, hoping to find Fenton and convince him to look elsewhere for this stupid 10-91H.

He spotted Fenton a little ways off from the stables, almost halfway to the closed, empty paddock. His head was lowered, his arms crossed over his chest. He looked tense. As Oliver neared, he could see something else, something on the ground. Human in shape. Warped. Contorted. Unmoving.

Fenton, apparently taking notice of him, looked up.

"Fish. I need you to get back to the car and radio this in."

Oliver stopped in his tracks. It was as if his body refused to get close enough to find out exactly what 'this' was.

"Fish." Fenton ran his hand through his hair. "You listening? Call in, tell 'em we've got a DB out here. Forget the horse. Dewey can take care of it."

Every muscle in Oliver's body tensed. "A... DB?" He didn't need clarification. He knew _that_ code. He just hoped he had somehow misheard. And that his eyes were somehow deceiving him.

"Yeah, Fish. A dead body. Call it in. We need the coroner out here."

Oliver pivoted where he stood and trekked back to the squad car, mechanically, spiritlessly. He felt as if he were on autonomic cruise control. The call was made, the coroner alerted. He blinked and was suddenly awake again, alert, by Fenton's side, staring down at the body, at that familiar frazzled blond hair, at that wide, painted mouth whose expressive smile had embarrassed him, shamed him, welcomed him. The lips were pale now, colorless in their lack of life, to match the rest of her wrinkled, slack face.

He had known, intellectually, distantly, that he would encounter death in his line of work. He just never imagined that his first dead body would be someone familiar to him. Someone dear to someone... dear to him. It made him sick to his stomach. He felt the bile rising, burning in his chest.

Clenching his fists, swallowing, he managed to hold it down.

Fenton knelt over the body. "Looks like she suffered a fall. Probably from our stray horse." He reached into her jeans pocket and pulled out a leather billfold. Lifting her hair away from her contorted neck with one hand, he shoved the other toward Fish. "Take a look through there. Find some I.D. if you can. Let's confirm that she's the owner of the property."

Oliver didn't need to rifle through the woman's belongings to know that. But, a master at following orders, he did what he was told.

"Sue McClendon," he said, flatly. "16748, Hollyhock Road."

His fingers, acting of their own accord, pried into one of the side pockets and extracted a photograph. It was beat-up, worn around the edges, faded. Sue sat on the floor of the stable, a newborn foal struggling in front of her as she rubbed its ears. In the background, off to the side... there he was. Leaning against a post, his eyes focused on Sue, a small smile playing on the corners of his lips. Oliver recognized that smile, the tinge of sadness that weighed it down. He had become expertly familiar with that look over the course of a few lost years.

Fenton's voice interrupted his thoughts. He had his back turned, his cell phone to his ear. "Hey, Ger, can you get the record's office for me? Yeah, I'm trying to find next of kin."

Oliver gulped. Next of kin. As far as he knew, that would be her nephew.

Fenton paced back and forth as he waited for his call to transfer. "Yeah, hi. I need you to look someone up for me." He turned and gestured at Oliver. "What's the name again, Fish?"

"Sue. Sue McClendon," he croaked out. He couldn't take his eyes off the photo. There she was. Alive. Bringing new life into the world. And there _he_ was. Oh, God. Someone was going to have to call him, to give him the horrible news. Oliver... couldn't. He couldn't be the one. He wouldn't know what to say, how to say it, how to explain it. How to explain anything.

"No family, eh?" Fenton shook his head. "No kids, siblings, nothing?" He squinted his eyes and bit his bottom lip. "Ah, all right. Thanks." He turned to Fish. "Looks like this one didn't have any family. Only child, no kids of her own." He swung his head around the open property and shoved his hands in his pockets. "I wonder what's going to happen to this place?"

Oliver felt his knees shaking. No family? That didn't make sense. He could feel the blood draining from his face.

"Fish, hey. You don't look so good." Fenton reached out and patted him on the arm. "You need to take a walk?"

Oliver shook his head. He palmed the photo and shoved it into his back pocket, covertly.

"No, it's just... I know her. I mean—" He gulped, tasting the bile in his throat. "I met her. Once. A few years ago."

"Oh, wow. That's a shame." Fenton put away his phone, then his shoulders seemed to perk up a bit. "Hey. Do you know if she had anyone close, maybe? Like a boyfriend, or someone else?"

Oliver closed his eyes. The name was on the tip of his tongue. He knew he could say it. He could do it. One measly syllable. That's all it would take. But his tongue was slow and thick, numbed by his nausea, by the old fears that gripped his stomach. The name wouldn't come, wouldn't be released.

He shook his head. "No. I don't know of anyone who—" He swallowed, running the back of his hand over his clammy forehead. "—who knew her."

"Yeah. It was a long shot." Fenton sucked in a breath through his teeth. "You're looking a bit pale, kid..."

The nausea overpowered him. He ran as fast as he could away from the body, toward the stables. He managed to turn the corner, where Fenton could no longer see him, and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the dried grass beneath him.

A voice, a memory, repeated in his ears on a constant, miserable loop.

_"Coward."_

That gravelly voice, so familiar, dripped with sadness and disgust. With a cold resignation, like he could never better himself, could never _not_ live down to the lowest expectations. What kind of a cop was he? What kind of a _man_ was he?

He couldn't stop the hot tears from squeezing out of eyes clenched painfully shut.

Steeling himself, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and began arguing with the phantom in his head.

"You lied to me. She's not your family. You're not her next of kin. I'm not going against procedure. This is still by the book. I haven't done anything... wrong."

The phantom didn't answer back. The silence only made him feel worse.

Suddenly, he felt that weight on his shoulder again, the same as when he ascended the front porch. This time it was tangible. And... wet.

He turned. A bridled, saddled horse lifted his nose from his jacket and snorted at him. Oliver couldn't help but laugh, even as more tears spilled from his eyes.

"10-91H." He reached out a hand. The horse rubbed up against it. "You found me."

He grabbed the reins and led the horse inside the stables. His hands and arms went to work removing the riding gear, though he didn't know how they remembered tasks that were taught to them so many years ago. He scattered feed in the trough and placed a blanket over the horse's back before walking him into an empty stall.

The horse flicked his tail with pleasure.

Oliver snapped his fingers. "I remember you. Do you remember me? I groomed you, once." He scoured his brain for a name before finally retrieving it. "Clark. The great explorer." He rubbed Clark's nose and sniffed loudly. "You had quite the journey today, huh?"

Clark snorted again and whipped his head from side to side.

"You okay, kid?" Fenton peeked his head through the open stable doors. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "Coroner's here, so I thought I'd take you back to the station."

Oliver nodded.

"Is that...?" Fenton gestured toward the horse.

Oliver nodded again. "You can call animal control. He's here. He came home."

"We'll need to get someone out here to take care of these guys."

"Yeah." Oliver wiped his wet face on his sleeve.

They drove back to the station in silence. Oliver felt the pit in his stomach grow larger with each passing minute. What was going to happen to the property? What was going to happen to the horses? Why couldn't he come out and say what needed to be said?

His insides roiled with discontent.

Once they had finally returned to the station, he found himself rushing to the bathroom, pitching and coughing over the toilet bowl until nothing came out but air. His abdomen ached and burned with each dry heave.

Someone knocked softly on the stall door.

"You feeling better, kid?"

Oliver could only groan.

"Your first body, huh?" Fenton's voice was soft, understanding. "We've all been there. Don't get down on yourself." He paused. "Doesn't make you any less of a cop."

Oliver brought his palm to mouth and bit down to stop the sob from escaping his throat.

"Don't worry about the paperwork on this one," Fenton continued. "I'll take care of it." Oliver could hear him step away from the stall and then stop. "Good job with the 10-91H."

Suddenly needing to do something, to redeem himself, to deserve kind words and soft voices, Oliver pulled his cell phone out of his back pocket.

He knew the number. It was etched in his heart, in every corner of his mind. He sometimes found himself doodling it on napkins, on the sides of his work-request forms, one time on the palm of his left hand—which had aroused the suspicion of the girl he was seeing at the time. It was a constant, nagging reminder of a life once lived, but also—only a random string of numbers. It could have any meaning in the world.

"I can do this," he said—to himself or the phantom, he wasn't sure. "I promise, I can do this."

His finger hovered over the keypad. Abruptly, inexplicably, his left hand closed down over the phone, shutting it off and putting it away. He closed his eyes in frustration.

He couldn't do it. _He_ couldn't do it. That didn't mean it couldn't be done. Even if it meant he wasn't a good man, that didn't mean he still couldn't be a good _cop_...

He picked himself off the floor of the bathroom and entered the squad room. Fenton's desk was empty, but he could see the case file there, ready to be filled in. Walking over to it, he stuck a large post-it note to the top of the file and wrote on it in big block letters, so it couldn't be missed:

NEXT OF KIN: Kyle Lewis. 267-555-8493.

 


End file.
